Whips of wind tormented the sparse winter branches of an old birch conducting a dazzling choreography of sunlit patches merrily across the stone floor. The well-equipped conservatory of Mr. Darcy’s Starvet House provided glorious access to the minimal Scottish sun. Jane Bennet dug her hands deep into the earth-filled pot to loosen the soil. Lifting the surge of soil bubbling to the top, she wiggled her fingers and allowed the crumbles to fall away. As she held up her unladylike filthy hands, a  giggle escaped the happy baby boy who was her nephew and ward.

“Is your Mama becoming dirty?” She wrinkled her nose and asked the rhetorical question of the young man who could barely sit up, let alone speak.

Jane lifted a sprig of rosemary from the seedling tray and planted the herb securely into the pot before adding a bit of water and placing it on the window sill.

Robert Bennet, affectionately called Robin, watched his aunt intently, amused by the warmth of the room, the fresh smell of soil, and the exciting activity of replanting herbs. Mrs. Buchanan entered the greenhouse to speak with Jane as Robin reached down to grab his own handful of dirt. Peering at the dark clump in his tiny  fist, the boy did what any baby would and lifted his hand to his mouth for a taste.

“Oh, no, we do not eat the dirt, we use it to grow the good things we can eat.” Jane lifted her nephew and dusted his bottom that was covered in dirt from his time in the conservatory. She held him on her hip, constantly sparring with his little hands that were reaching for her hair, her earrings, and her face all at once.

“The wee lad has grown to be such an active poppet.” Mrs. Buchanan beamed at the happy child, still soft on the boy over the tumultuous manner in which he entered the world. The entire staff of Starvet House, save one dismissed nurse, took a claiming to the boy who was rescued and literally breathed back to life in the very kitchens of the home. His birth mother was not so lucky to survive that terrible night.

Robin let out a little squabble in frustration that he could not reach any of his aims.

“He is, but I believe it is time for his nap.” Jane did not hesitate when Mrs. Buchanan reached out to take the boy. Although the young man was very much Jane’s to claim, she respected and appreciated that most of the staff joined her in caring for the only connection to her sister, Lydia, that remained in the world.

Jane moved on to repotting the lavender when a handsome fox turned to his side so that Mrs. Buchanan might pass as he leaned against the doorway. Jane’s eyes flitted to the door as Robin squawked again, recognizing Lord Graham Hamilton as his playtime caregiver, though once more the boy was denied. A full wail echoed down the hall of a babe unable to handle so many disappointments in such a short period of time.

“He’s tired I take it?”

“Exhausted. He’s trying ever so hard to learn how to crawl, but thankfully we are safe from that development for the near future.” Jane shared a laugh with Graham, then remembering her mission, furiously returned to the herbs she had started as seeds over two months ago.

“You are forever planting . . . I’m beginning to learn if I cannot find you anywhere else to look in the conservatory.” Graham sauntered off the step, his over six-foot-frame starkly contrasting with the lower tables and planters of a room designed primarily for female use.

“I like new beginnings.” Jane shrugged her shoulders, closely inspecting the hardy lavender stalk before her. “Gardening is full of new starts and happy colors.”

“I had come to see if you wish to take luncheon together.” Mr. Hamilton had very lately taken to inviting Jane in a very formal manner for each of their meals. The two began living at Darcy’s Scottish estate out of necessity. Graham Hamilton, with his own home burning down at the end of last summer the night before Robin’s arrival, rejected living at his parents’ estate on the premise of freedom and to offer Darcy’s sister by marriage a gentleman’s protection. Jane had remained so that she might take care of Robert Bennet, the bastard child of George Wickham and Lydia Bennet, without the prying eyes of English society.

“I’m afraid I ate my meal before seeing to my work.” Jane was not being honest, but she found herself uncommonly out of sorts around Graham. Her heart’s beating would increase and she knew herself to be excessively attracted to the man’s kind nature and handsome features.

But there was no hope for Jane Bennet to find a husband. No, her heart and soul had to belong to little Robert if the child was to have any hope of surviving.

Mr. Hamilton frowned but did not allow Jane’s refusal to stymie his aims. Seeing her finish the lavender pot, he reached forward to lift the clay vessel to Jane’s complaints.